Grace Under Pressure
by CharlesTheBold
Summary: Studying in Europe, Grace has some new experiences that she is not ready to discuss with her friends back in Arcadia. PLEASE REVIEW.
1. Alone in Rome

**GRACE UNDER PRESSURE**

_(**Disclaimer**: I have no business connection with JOAN. My only purpose in writing this story is to have fun and maybe share it)_

_(Author's Note: This story is part of a series that takes place in the years after the JOAN OF ARCADIA TV show ended. A listing of the other stories is on my profile. The main events that have happened since May 2005 are _

_(1) Joan has let Grace, Luke, and Adam into her secret _

_(2) Joan and Adam got married in June, 2006._

_(3) Joan, Adam, and Grace have graduated from high school. Luke was jumped a year and allowed to graduate with them._

_(4) Grace went to Europe in the sunmer of 2006 for training in a famine-relief organization. Joan, Adam, and Luke accompanied her for two weeks but returned to the States at the end._

_(5) Grace has told Joan's secret to an Italian friend, Marghareta.._

_This story starts in August, 2006_)

**Chapter 1 Alone in Rome**

Amazing how quickly things can become prosaic.

I never would have said so out loud -- it would completely ruin my image as Cynic Girl -- but Italy during the first two weeks had seemed like a wonderland. In the States I had considered myself at war with Society, but I didn't feel the same impulse here, because I didn't know enough about the social background. I knew of course about Renaissance tyrants like Alexander Borgia and the tormentors of Galileo, and of Mussolini's dictatorship in the twentieth century, but this was a new generation of Italians that I was dealing with, with no black marks that I knew of. They had a lovely language and a sense of art that, at home, I had only seen in Adam.

I could indulge one of my favorite hobbies, horseback riding, under the pretext that I was practicing for life in a primitive country.

There had been darker moments -- arguments with Luke over our future and whether You-Know-Who was interfering with it, and Joan's quest for "roots" that ended in the discovery of a dying aunt. But they seemed like problems that we had brought with us, nothing that I could blame on Italy.

Of course it was all subjective. I didn't know Italian at first, and so I was cut off from local newspapers and TV, which might have told me dispiriting news. Pretty sounds could convey dismal ideas -- Italian was after all the language of Dante's Inferno.

Also, to be frank, sex played a big role. Luke and I had arranged to share a room and a bed, and had taken full advantage of the opportunity. Now Luke was an ocean away and likely to remain so for several months at the least. Of course I still felt a bond, just as I did during the two years of acquaintance before we consummated the relationship, but I was feeling a letdown.

Electronic communications did not quite compensate. I had used Email two years ago to make my one big revelation to Luke -- MY MOTHER DRINKS -- but it was hard for me to write love letters, and even harder to type them into a machine. Much easier to make practical requests like "I won't be back in the States for months; you might as well sell my horse."

There were no revelations from Her, and that was probably a relief. She never dropped in from heaven just to say _Shalom_. She always had a mission in mind, and I wasn't in the mood for that.

The week after my friends went home I threw myself into studying -- the Italian language in the mornings and agriculture in the afternoon. The studying was a lot more enjoyable than it had been at Aracadia High, but by Thursday I was bored by the routine. I went to a popular bar near my new flat. As the daughter of an alcoholic I still had inhibitions about what I drank, but I was able to order a Coke and sat sipping it.

"_Bon giorno, Gracia,"_ came a voice from the entrance. It was our friend Marghareta. "How is it going?"

"_Fa bene,"_ I said; it was a tag I had learned in class yesterday.

_"Non fa troppo bene,"_ Marghareta replied, and in response to my chagrin at not understanding the reply, she laughed. "I said, things don't seem to be going TOO well."

"Right. I'm sort of bored."

"Lack of Luke?" she asked, apparently finding the alliteration funny.

"Partly."

"This weekend, I'm going hiking in the mountains with _un'amica." _I caught the feminine ending: the friend was a girl. "Want to come along?"

"I've been in the mountains," I said, recalling how Joan and I had made our way up a steep trail to her reclusive aunt's home.

"I remember-- but Francesca lives in the mountains in Tuscany. Easier road and more beautiful scenery."

I thought about it. Hiking was not my thing and, in the States, I probably would have said no. But in the States I had friends to fall back on -- Joan, Adam, Maggie, even the Friedmanns. Here I needed to make friends, and I was not going to do that by reflexably turning down invitations.

"OK, I'll come."

Francesca, Marghareta's _amica,_ was an effusive, athletic girl who seemed to act on impulse. I didn't know anybody else quite like that. Everybody I knew had some sort of emotional baggage that kept them from uninhibited enjoyment of life: my mother's drinking, the suicide of Adam's mother, or the auto accident that had paralyzed the Girardi's eldest son. It seemed rather typical of Francesca that she did not map a route through the hills ahead of time, but merely chose a fork or turn when we came upon them. She knew the area well enough not to get lost.

Apparently it was also typical that she had not anticipated just how hot walking could get in August. I commented that it was "90 in the shade", a remark that confused the other two until I converted the degrees to Celsius units. But Francesca promptly came up with a solution.

"I know of a little lake near here. No pollution, few people know about it. Let's go for a swim."

"_Una bella idea_!" cried Marghareta.

"But I didn't bring a swimsuit," I said.

Marghareta laughed. "You don't need a swimsuit to go swimming."

"Perhaps _Americane_ do," Francesca said, "Very puritanical, I hear."

Given her personality, Francesca probably regarded that as harmless teasing, or a rough attempt to let me bow out. Perhaps she didn't know that I was Jewish, and even if she had, she probably didn't realize how irritating it was for me to be lumped in with a Christian sect whose politics were far different from mine. So I erred in the opposite direction. "We do swim in the nude sometimes. We've even got a word for it -- skinny-dipping."

"_Quella parola_ -- skinny-dip!" said Marghareta, always willing to learn English slang. But I had protested too much, like the lady in Hamlet, and now they thought I was in agreement. About a kilometer later they turned onto the path which, Francesca said, would take us to the pool. Great.

I was by habit a loner, not fond of intimacies with other people. I had grown up an only child, no sisters to exchange girl talk with. I had never let any of my friends, with the obvious exception of Luke, see me naked. Oh, there had been a few harmless accidents, usually on occasions when I was staying overnight with Joan, but none of them deliberate exposures. But now I was expected to go skinny-dipping with two girls whom I knew far less than I knew Joan.

I wished I had stayed back in Rome, being bored. What would I do now?

TBC


	2. Girl Meets Boy

**GRACE UNDER PRESSURE**

**Chapter 2 Girl Meets Boy**

I hung back as my two friends undressed. Francesca made it look like she was freeing herself of bonds. Once divested, she streaked up a rocky outcropping and dove into the lake. Marghareta was a little more cautious, not being familiar with the lake and where the deep parts were. Dropping her clothes on top of Francesca's, she waded out into the lake until her butt was under water and out of sight.

I took off my shoes, socks, jeans and blouse, and decided to stop at that. It would be no more embarrassing than wearing a two-piece bathing suit. My bra and panties were not designed for bathing and might get waterlogged, but I'd guard against getting pulled under. I followed Marghareta into the water.

It was cold, probably fed by streams further up in the mountains, but that was a relief in the heat of the day. I tried to get in the sprit of the thing: have fun, don't bring the concerns of the City with you. Everybody had butts and all women had breasts; why bother concealing the fact?

Marghareta swam up to me. The breast stroke took on a new meaning when you could see the breasts in question. "Ever do this with Luke?"

"Nope. Our idea of outdoor sports is riding horses together."

"Good that you have a common interest."

"Actually, he does it to humor me."

"So you can impose your favorite hobby on your boyfriend? That's even better--"

_"Eh, ragazze!"_

We turned toward the bank in shock. There were two young guys standing there, obviously enjoying the view, though one looked a bit shamefaced about it.

Francesca sank up to her neck and shouted in Italian; I could recognize the word _va,_ go. She was clearly telling them to go away.

One guy, the shorter one, seemed about to obey, but the other stood his ground and answered back.

"What's he saying?" I asked Marghareta desperately.

She looked very frightened. She was no longer swimming _au naturel_, like a modern-day water nymph, but a naked girl confronting a potential rapist. We were all paddling to keep our heads above the surface while letting the water conceal everything else. "They say they want to swim with us."

"That's ALL they want to do with us?"

"So he says." Marghareta clearly didn't believe him.

I looked around. There was no other easy point to exit the lake; the mountain rocks made a wall around three sides. But there was an outcropping in the lake with some loose stones on top. Neither Marghareta nor Francesca could climb it without exposing their bodies. But with my breasts and ass covered--

I managed to grab a loose rock and hurl it toward the bully. It hit him in the chest, a little higher than I had aimed.

"_Merdo!"_ he shouted; that was one word that I didn't need translated. Suddenly he walked to our pile of clothes, picked them up and yelled something at Francesca, who gasped.

"What?" I called.

"He says he's going to throw our clothes over the cliff, and we can hike home naked for all he cares!" said Marghareta in horror. "Why did you have to make him mad, Gracia? And now what are you doing?"

The two young men were walking back to the road, and I swam to the bank as quickly as I could. I don't know what I had in mind. All I knew was that I wasn't going to take any crap from a bully, even in a foreign land.

I got out and started walking back up the path. It definitely wasn't designed for a girl with bare feet: the rocky parts were hot, and the parts that weren't thoroughly rocky had pebbles and twigs that were painful to step on. My wet undies clung to my anatomy as if they were plastered there. But I trudged on determinedly, stopping only to pick up a stick and rock as possible weapons.

On reaching the mountain lane I only saw the quieter guy, who was looking down the hill. But he did have the clothes in his arms. "Gimme those!" I yelled in English.

He turned to me and started. I must have been a sight: sopping wet, half-naked, and looking like I was ready to kill somebody. And I'm well aware of the fact that most males do not find me pleasant to look at under normal circumstances.

"_Perdonate me, signora."_ He put the clothes on the ground and backed up a few paces, so we wouldn't have to make actual physical contact. "We were not thinking to hurt you. We thought to swim ourselves, and when we found the lake in use, my brother thought to have some fun."

_"Fun_?" Dropping the makeshift weapons, I picked up the clothes and used them to hide my cleavage.

"Beppo, he is crude. And when you hit him with the stone, he got angry. I persuaded him to go away and calm himself. You are English?"

"American."

"Please do not blame this experience on my countrymen."

"What? Oh, no, I'm glad to blame it all on individual stupidity." I could just imagine Friedmann relishing this situation, at least before he settled down with Glynis. "Just get out of here, will you?"

"_Si, signora."_

"It's _signorina!"_

"I was trying to show respect. It was brave, to fight back when you thought you were in danger."

"Yeah, thanks. _Va!"_

He va-ed.

I put my jeans and blouse back on. That wasn't ideal, because my undies were still soaked underneath, but at least I felt covered and safer. I carried the other two's clothes back to the lake area. Marghareta and Francesca, still stark naked, were hiding behind a bush, but easy to find because they were yelling at each other in florid Italian. Even not knowing much of the language I could guess what they were saying: Francesca kept insisting she thought the lake was _segreto_, and Marghareta replying that it was obviously not secret enough if two groups came to visit within an hour. She said that Francesca was a bimbo, and the other made some rude-sounding references to Marghareta's _seni_ and _culo_, obviously based on direct observation.

Exasperated, I put the clothes on the path in front of the bush, and waited to see which girl had the nerve to dart out first in her birthday suit. After all, I had done the hard part.

That night I bathed in a far more civilized manner, in my bathroom with the door carefully locked. Then I settled down at my computer. Luke and I had agreed at the start that the best time for exchanging messages would be at late evening Rome time, which would correspond to early evening in Arcadia.

For several days Luke's messages had been dominated by a single topic: Sister Lily had announced that she was having a baby, so there was going to be a new generation of Girardis. I got tired of that topic pretty quickly. After all, if my parents ever got in a we-want-grandchildren mode, all their hopes would have to be focussed on me, the only child. I was definitely not ready for that.

Today Luke had a different topic. "Joan tried to ride Polly today. I hope you don't mind."

I tried to imagine Joan on horseback, and failed. I typed: "I'm not possessive where you guys are concerned. But what was she thinking of? She's never had riding lessons!"

"Long story. Maybe save it for another Email. So what did you do today?"

I sat for a long time thinking of a reply. Did I really want Luke to know that a strange guy had seen me in my bra and panties, and that for a few minutes I had been afraid of being assaulted? Luke would be terrified for me, and so would any other friend or relative whom the story reached. Finally I typed:

"Went hiking in the mountains with some girlfriends. Bad idea, it was really hot today."

And with that I signed off.

TBC

_(Author's Note: Luke's mention of the Grace's horse and of Lily's pregnancy are references to another of my stories, ANOTHER JOAN, which is happening at the same time as this one)_


	3. Advice and Consent

**GRACE UNDER PRESSURE**

_(Author's Note: In response to constructive criticism from Briee and Hannora about Francesca's willingness to give out the address, I rewrote the section explaining why she might trust Antonio)_

**Chapter 3 Advice and Consent**

After the hectic weekend, it was almost a relief to resume classes on Monday. It was intriguing that the complex language that I was studying, with five words for "the" and three for "you", was the same one that Marghareta and Francesca had been slanging at each other on Saturday. Some of the words weren't in the standard dictionary, but via a less sedate Internet site I deciphered some of the profanity. It made the language lesson more fun.

As I got back to my flat that afternoon I was almost in a good mood, when my landlady handed me a package marked FRAGILI. "It was left by a handsome young man," she said with a wink. "He left his address with me, in case you want to reply."

I didn't know any handsome young man. Yet scribbled in one corner was A GRACIA POLANSCHI, clearly an Italianized reference to me.

I got up to my room, locked the door for privacy, and opened the package. It was a bottle of wine. Attached was a note:

**Per la penitenza -- Antonio**

In itself it seemed very romantic. In this culture a bottle of wine could be considered the perfect gift, and nobody could be expected to know that I avoided alcohol. But I have a strong anti-romantic streak, and I saw the dark implications almost immediately. The only men in Italy who would possibly have an interest in me were the pair who saw me with most of my clothes off Saturday. And how would they get my name and address?

Was I being stalked? Was the seemingly nice gift really a coded message: WE KNOW WHERE TO FIND YOU?

I had developed the nerve to stand up to the guy because I was annoyed, and annoyance was a very powerful emotion with me. But putting up with a stalker gave me the willies.

I needed advice.

The next day after work, as I approached the flat that Marghareta shared with her boyfriend, I heard the latter shouting. I distinctly heard the word _nuda_: naked, feminine. So Michel had learned about the skinny-dipping. As I hesitated, trying to decide what to do, Marghareta flung the door open and charged out, nearly knocking me down.

"_Che vuol_ -- what do YOU want?" she demanded.

I held up the wine bottle.

_"Si,_ I got one too. Michel was not pleased, at the thought that I had another admirer. And when I told him about dipping my skin, he was even less pleased."

"How do you suppose they got our addresses?"

Marghareta shrugged. "I don't know, and I'm not talking to you. I didn't appreciate your making me crawl out of the bush naked to get my things." She stormed off angrily.

Great. My only confidante didn't want to talk to me. At home I would have confidence in my own ability to handle the threat, but here I needed some sort of support, or at least advice.

Ask Luke to get advice from his police-chief father? But I had already lied to Luke.

Ask at work? I didn't want to give the impression that I could get into boy trouble the instant my steady lover disappeared.

Complain to the police? And tell them what? "Some guy sent me a bottle of wine--"

I wished She would suddenly pop up, even if it was to tell me that I was an idiot. She didn't, but that gave me an idea.

Nearly three years ago, puzzled by a seemingly immoral command from God, Joan had gone to my father for advice. And though Dad had his arms full of my drunken mother at the time, and Joan had admitted up front that she wasn't even Jewish, Dad had felt honor bound to listen to her problem.

The travel agency that had found us our original hotel also had a numbers-to-call list -- including representatives of each major religion. Naturally there was an English-speaking rabbi on the list.

The next day--

"So, do you think I am in danger?" I asked the rabbi after telling my story, omitting the real embarrassing moments but making clear voyeurism had been involved.

"The entire story is not clear to me. How did they obtain your address?"

"Francesca. Turns out she and the guys know each other slightly; they are from the same village at the base of the mountain. The older, Beppo, is a bully; the younger, Antonio, has a reputation for being a nice guy, but under his brother's thumb. When Antonio came by, very contrite, and saying that he wanted to apologize to all three of us, she thought she could entrust him with the addresses. He swore that his brother would not get the information."

"But you don't agree with your friend?"

"I think she might have been too gullible."

The rabbi thought, and while he did so I looked around the study, whose trappings were quite different from those in my father's synagogue. This was the southern Sephardic tradition of Judaism, not the northern Ashkenazi strain that had formed my ancestors. Oddly enough it looked more like Father Ken's office than my father's. These were Jews who had lived alongside Italian Catholicism for centuries.

"I think there is no danger," Rabbi Levi said finally.

"How do you figure that?" I demanded, hoping he wasn't just taking the male side.

"The behavior of the participants. Your friend Francesca gave the man your address, yet did not warn you. Ergo, she expects no harm."

"Yeah, but she's not very bright."

"You are concerned that the man knows your name and address, yet he gave his own as well. Would not a "stalker" be more secretive?"

"Um, yes."

"And there is the phrasing of the note. I am of course a Jew, but I understand some of the terminology of the _Cristiani_. _Penitenza_, or penitence in English is a very powerful word. It does not only convey guilt, but a sense of sin, even a willingness to suffer to expiate the sin. It is like the emotion we experience in Yom Kippur. So unless we assume that the young man is a thorough Machiavelli, we can conclude that he is genuinely sorry for his behavior."

"But I don't want to deal with him."

"That is a separate matter. You need have no dealings with him except one."

"One?"

"Moses taught that if somebody asks forgiveness and means it seriously, it should be granted to him."

"Oh." I didn't much like the idea. But after all I had asked for advice, basically for free, and _il Signor Levi_ had really been a great help settling my fears. "Thank you, rabbi. You know, you'd make a good armchair detective."

"Your English writer Chesterton said there was a parallel between the religious temperament and the detective. I love Father Brown."

Not sure who Father Brown was, but not wanting to admit that I knew less about English Lit than an Italian rabbi, I took my leave.

_(AUTHOR'S NOTE: Chesterton was an English Catholic theologian at the beginning of the twentieth century, and on the side he wrote stories featuring a detective/priest named Father Brown. Adam referred to his most famous mystery, THE INVISIBLE MAN, in my earlier story ANOTHER JOAN)_

_(AUTHOR'S NOTE Grace changed her last name back to Polanski on her eighteenth birthday and that's the name her Italian acquaintances would know her by..)_

TBC


	4. His Story

**GRACE UNDER PRESSURE**

**Chapter 4 His Story**

When I got home from visiting the rabbi, there was an Email waiting for me, from Luke.

_Both Sister Lily and me were stuck at home this morning -- she had morning sickness and my leg injury was hurting. We spent the time talking about my G.N.A. research. She pointed out that ordinary D.N.A. got involved in everything -- cells, sex, love, babies -- and asked if my G.N.A. would be equally important. I explained it wasn't stable enough to compete with D.N.A., and Lily said winning competitions wasn't everything; it's enough that something exists and has an effect on the world. That was an encouraging thought._

That narrative had an odd effect on me; compared to my recent experiences, it seemed to be from another world. It was certainly absurd to be jealous of Lily -- she was married to Luke's brother, and having his baby! -- but it should have been me offering that encouragement.

I had to clean up this business of Antonio and put it out of my mind.

The next day was Wednesday, and on getting home from work, I called the number Antonio had left. No answer.

He hadn't left an Email number; all I had was a street address, which seemed to be a small rooming house or hotel. I set at my computer and wrote out a letter:

_16 August, 2006_

_Dear Sir:_

_I have received your apology. If you really want to do penance, please undertake never to come near me or my friends again._

_Not Yours, Truly_

_Grace Polonski_

Next question: how to mail it? By Italian post it may take days, and I wanted to be done with the affair. On the other hand, it wasn't worth paying for courier service.

Looking at a Rome transit map, I noticed a fortunate coincidence: his dwelling and mine were on the same streetcar line. A trip there, hand it to his own landlady, a trip back. It would be quick, and Luke might even call it symmetric. Not that I intended to tell him about this incident.

But my careful plan went all to blazes when I hopped off the streetcar at the destination. There were police walking around -- clearly recognizable in spite of different customs and costumes. There were also some people hovering around, looking rather nervous. I walked up to one young man who seemed harmless. "_Parle Lei inglese?"_

_"Un po."_

"What happened?"

He shrugged. "Two boys beat a boy named Antonio, he lives here. Then they beat each other."

"Why?"

"_Non conosco."_

This was getting nowhere, and of course it was my own fault for charging into a situation without knowing enough of the language. Seeing an officer walk up, I carefully composed the next question._ "Dov'e Antonio?._

_"L'ospedale di Santa Maria."._

_"Grazie," _I said, and made myself scarce before he thought to question me. A girl who knew the victim of a possible crime of passion? The sensible thing would be to go home and forget about this. But I was too curious. When another streetcar came by on the line, I asked how I could find St. Mary's Hospital.

At the hospital I had trouble getting beyond the admissions desk: after all Antonio might be considered to need protection. Finally I said "Tell him that Gracia is here." The message was sent and apparently he said I could visit.

He was lying in a hospital bed, with bandages to his left arm and head, but otherwise unharmed in body and spirit. "Buona notte, Gracia. So you have come to forgive."

"Um, yeah," I said awkwardly. "But mainly I came because I wanted to know what the hell is going on. Who were the guys who beat you up?"

"They did not give their name, but the first I ran into said that he was a lover of Francesca, and that I had dishonored his beloved."

"And the other guy?"

"He also said that he was a lover of Francesca, and that I had dishonored his beloved."

"But why -- oh. They didn't know each other existed?"

"No. Francesca had been clever up to now."

"So after taking care of you, they fought each other. Weird. But how did all this get started?"

"I tried explaining to you on the mountain. Beppo and I knew of a lake, _bella_, and decided to take a swim. We were surprised to find _donne_ there. Beppo got frustrated and started to teasing your friends about sharing the lake, knowing that they would not be willing to do so in their, um, state of undress."

"Why didn't you stop him?"

"I have no dignified reason. It was the first time in my life that I had been in the presence of -- ah -- " he struggled for a proper English euphemism.

"Beauty bare?" I suggested, remembering a poem in English Lit.

"Si."

I remembered that awkward night when Luke and I had undressed for the first time in order to make love. Luke had been fascinated by my breasts, which I sort of took for granted, and thought my ass was sexy rather than repulsive. Guys and girls did weird things when sexual temptation was involved, and the main question was whether they were refrained from hurting anybody in the process. Antonio hadn't. It was an accidental meeting at the lake, after all.

Antonio had already started narrating how Beppo had snatched the clothes after I had hit him with the rock. He didn't know whether his brother really intended to throw them away or just wanted to give us a good scare, but he followed Beppo back to the road and persuaded him to surrender the clothes. After that Antonio was puzzled as to what to do next. He hadn't noticed that I was partially covered, and didn't know a polite way to deal with three naked girls. Then I had popped up. "It was very brave of you."

"I wasn't brave, I was mad."

"Whatever. I wanted to apologize for the whole thing but you did not give me a chance. But I knew where Francesca lived in the village. I apologized to her, and persuaded her to tell me how to find her friends."

"Okay. Now, I wished you tell Marghareta the same story you just told me. She has a boyfriend who was not pleased to hear about the incident. Don't worry, Michel is not the beating-up type."

"I will write again."

"Then let's get the whole misadventure out of our minds. Pretend it never happened."

"If you wish."

On the way out of the hospital I put my hand in my jeans pocket for streetcar fare, and realized that I still had the letter, the one telling Antonio never to try to see me again. I tossed it into a BIOHAZARD container and kept going.

TBC

_(AUTHOR'S NOTE: The poem Grace was trying to remember was Edna Millay's "Euclid Alone has Looked on Beauty Bare")_


	5. Trials and Tribulations

**GRACE UNDER PRESSURE**

**Chapter 5 Trials and Tribulations**

_(AUTHOR'S NOTE: Thanks to Hannora for telling me how European trial procedure differs from the American. Any errors are mine.)_

When I got home it was after midnight. Luke had tried to contact me over the computer and ended up leaving an Email.

_Friedmann and Glynis came by today. I thought that we were going to talk science stuff like in school, but it ended up with Sister Lily and Glynis talking about babies, and even Friedmann joined in there. Odd how we have drifted apart just in a few months. But that's not a criticism of you; I know you're following your bliss._

I wasn't feeling too blissful at the moment.

Over the next few days I threw myself into Italian language lessons. The incident with the police and the hospital had dramatized just how dependent I was on locals speaking English, and I wanted to be more self-sufficient. Meanwhile Luke, knowing nothing of the stress I was under, continued to send news from home. Sunday:

_There's some argument about your horse. The rabbi wanted to donate it to a camp for disturbed children, but he's worried about the way it ran away with Joan last week. Joan admits she knew nothing about horses and probably screwed up, but suppose a kid does the same thing?_

I sighed and typed in the advice that they consult the Beghs, who had originally given me the horse and were expert in their behavior. I had last ridden Polly a month ago, and already my pet seemed to be in some other universe.

Monday I was thrown for a loop when an official envelope arrived, full of ornate Italian that I hadn't learnt yet. I was reduced to showing it to my landlady and asking what it meant.

"That is a request, for you to come to a court on 21 Augusto and answer questions. A week from today."

"A subpoena?"

"I do not know that word."

Why would I be summoned? Obviously it would have to do with Antonio. Maybe somebody found out about my visit to the hospital and thought I was his girlfriend. Great.

Getting involved in a foreign court case terrified me. As a Jew I could not help thinking of MERCHANT OF VENICE with its bigoted Christian court, and Mrs. Girardi had told me the horrific tale of how a Renaissance female artist, Artemesia Gentileschi, had nearly had her fingers broken in a torture chamber. But this was the twenty-first century, not the Renaissance. Italy was part of the European Community and was enlightened enough to abolish capital punishment, something my own nation had never done. There was no use frightening myself with xenophobia about how a foreign justice system might work.

I had to explain matters at work, of course, in order to explain my time off next Monday. I found Madame Chevalier, the woman who had supervised my riding exam, and showed her the summons, explaining that I had been called by mistake after visiting a mugging victim in the hospital. She was sympathetic and explained some of the differences in the legal systems. Italy was a "civil law" country, whose laws were based on a series of codes, starting with Justinian's Roman Law and later modified with Napoleon's Code. Instead of relying on precedent, its courts relied on a coherent, organized set of statutes -- which were, of course, in Italian. There were numerous minor differences, she said. In the States, for example, any ordained minister or rabbi could pronounce a couple husband and wife. In Europe, what counted was getting the marriage contract, and the religious ceremony was simply tradition. None of which helped me at the moment.

On arrival at the courthouse I was told to wait outside the courtroom and not discuss the case with anybody. I had expected that much. Isolating a witness to keep her testimony from being influenced was an old practice; Jewish tradition attributed the idea to the prophet Daniel. Eventually I was called in.

There was a broad desk on a dais, with three judges behind it, one a woman. I focused on that, steeling myself not to look around the courtroom like a tourist.

"Please approach the bar," said the middle judge. "You are Gracia Polonski?"

"Actually it's Grace, G-R-A-C-E," I said, careful to pronounce the letters in Italian. Usually I didn't mind their Italianizing my name, but this was an official record.

"Since you are from America, we have arranged for an interpreter."

"Thank you, your honor."

He looked amused. "I know that's the proper address in America, but here just say Signor."

There was no oath of testimony, and no witness box to sit in. I kept standing there. A bailiff walked up with a photograph of Antonio. "Do you know this man?" asked the interpreter.

"We've met," I said guardedly.

Italian exchange, then "Could you describe the circumstances under which you met?"

Oh, crap, I was going to have to talk about the skinny-dipping. "Saturday the 12th, I was swimming in a lake in the Tuscan hills with two of my girlfriends. Then this man and another guy showed up. The other guy threatened to get in with us."

Italian exchange, then "Why do you say threaten? Was it your personal property?"

"No, but we were -- um -- in various stages of undress."

The translation of that inspired some laughter from the onlookers, but the judge banged his gavel and made a speech in Italian.

Interpreter: "The court understands that you - plural -- might feel defensive under the circumstances. What happened next?"

"I threw a rock at the guy."

This produced another sensation, and I wondered whether I was setting myself up for an assault charge.

Interpreter: "And then what happened?"

I explained how Beppo had grabbed our clothes, how Antonio had chased Beppo and I had chased both. The court wanted to know what stage of undress I was in.

"Do I have to answer that?" This was less unpleasant than being grilled by a lawyer, as I had seen on TV, but there were limits.

The female judge spoke up. "_Prego, Signorina,_ we are not trying to embarrass you. We are trying to ascertain how much danger you and your friends were in. We can clear the court of all but the principals if you wish privacy."

I sighed. "Never mind. I wasn't going bare-assed, if that's what you're implying. I was in my underclothes. Which were pretty soaked."

The interpreter translated that -- I recognized the phrase "_non a culo nudo_" -- and there was more laughter. I ground my teeth.

"And then?"

"Antonio returned the clothes and that was it." I said hastily, hoping to get this over with.

The interpreter translated. The judge talked to his colleagues, then looked around, addressing other members of the court. One of them asked a question.

"Did Antonio in himself make any move that you would consider an offense.?"

"Emotions were high at the time, but looking back afterwards, no."

The interpreter translated that, and the judge suddenly switched to English. "Thank you, _signorina_, for your testimony, and I regret that some of it was embarrassing to you. But as you say, emotions were high, and we must compare details to get an objective idea of what happened."

"All right. Can I go?"

"You may leave."

Marghareta and Michel were sitting outside the courtroom. Before we could say anything, Marghareta was summoned inside, and I was left sitting with Michel. "Are you involved in the case?"

"No," he answered. "I just came to keep Marghareta company. I suppose we can talk freely with each other."

"OK. What the hell is going on?"

"Pietro and Paulo, Francesca's boyfriends, are on trial for attacking Antonio. Their defense was that Antonio threatened Francesca, so the magistrate must determine exactly what happened at the lake."

"But beating him up days later? That's not protection, that's just revenge. And it doesn't excuse their fighting each other."

"No. _La vendetta_ may seem important in a small village, but it is unlikely to impress a court. They will lose."

"In the meantime, we girls look like laughingstocks who can't keep our clothes on and need boyfriends to protect us. If Luke ever tried to protect ME, I'd slug him." That wasn't entirely fair. Luke did come to my aid a couple of years ago against some school bullies, and I had been impressed then, even though he lost. "What if the _papparazzi_ find out?"

"Perhaps the case will be too small to attract _papparazzi._ It is not as if you are a TV star, after all."

Marghareta marched out of the courtroom with a sulky look.

"How was it?" I asked.

"_Andiamo!!"_ was her one word answer. _Let's get out of here._

Michel tried to console her by taking her out to dinner, and they were nice enough to include me. We took a cab out of the hectic downtown area, and he found a lovely _trattoria_ on a tree-lined boulevard: Europe at its most charming. He tried to order me wine and was a little surprised at my refusal, but I was not going to explain about my family and alcohol.

They asked about Luke, and how he was recovering from his riding accident. I replied and went on about his brother's ex-nun wife expecting a _bambino_, knowing that they would think that very funny.

Then we were interrupted by a familiar voice calling out _"Perdonate--"_

Marghareta looked around and muttered_, "Merdo!"_

Antonio was back.

TBC


	6. Truce

**GRACE UNDER PRESSURE**

**Chapter 6 Truce**

"How did you know we were here?" I demanded. "Have you been stalking us?"

"He hasn't," put in Michel unexpectedly. "He and I met here, when he explained the incident at the lake to me. I suppose he guessed we would come here again."

"Si," said Antonio.

"So what do you want this time?" I asked.

_"La peni--"_

"Penance again," groused Marghareta. "You must really be looking forward to dropping dead and going to Dante's Purgatory."

"Let him talk," said Michel.

"I have, as Americans say, screwed out," said Antonio. "I thought that, by demanding a trial of my attackers, I could persuade Beppo not to get even. But I did not know that they would require _voi _to describe being, ahem --"

"_A nudo culo,_ right," I said. "I don't need another bottle of wine."

"I was going to offer more. You like visiting Tuscany, _si_? My brother and I have a farm at the base of the mountain. I invite you to spend a day there--"

"And hope we'll dip our skins again?" demanded Marghareta.

Antonio looked confused at the phrase, but the general meaning must have been clear. "No, you misunderstand. Michel may come too. Gracia can bring her lover. They can see that nothing's wrong. Beppo is away in France looking at horses to buy; he won't bother you."

"What about Francesca?" I asked.

He frowned. "She is not included. This problem is partly her fault."

"All right, we'll think about it," said Marghareta.

I let things slide after that. Next day I was back at work. Fellow workers wanted to know how the trial went, and I gave them a very vague version. I was too embarrassed to mention the whole matter of "varying stages of undress", and it occurred to me that I was not close enough to anybody at work to talk of really intimate stuff. I might have been able to confide in Joan, had she been here, but I was afraid that Luke could find anything I sent her. In the meantime, in Luke's Emails, I kept hearing how life was going on without me.

_We contacted Dr. Begh about the horse, and he came up with a simple solution: the rabbi could trade Polly back to him for a more docile mount of the same value, then the rabbi could donate the new horse to the camp. Joan said she'd take care of the paperwork; she's had AP Law, and besides she thinks the whole thing was her fault for trying to ride Polly in the first place. It's too bad Jews and Muslims and others can't communicate so well more often, don't you think?_

What it boiled down to was that I had two friends on the spot, Michel and Marghareta. Could I really afford to reject offers of friendship from another guy? On Wednesday I called Michel to ask his opinion of Antonio.

"I think Antonio is an honest fellow, always wanting to do the right thing. It's just bad luck, the way we met. I told Marghareta that I was willing to accept."

If anyone should be suspicious of Antonio it should be Michel, and if he was willing to give Antonio a chance--? I decided to go up with my friends.

Saturday morning I attended the synagogue, in gratitude for the rabbi for giving me good advice. Besides, I reminded myself that High Holy Days were coming up in September and I wanted to familiarize myself with the place, some of whose practices differed from those at home. It was somewhat ironic that during the service I understood the liturgical Hebrew better than I did the conversational Italian.

After lunch we took a train to Florence. Antonio picked us up in an old car. _Think unpretentious car_, I told myself. It's better than some guy trying to wow me with a new Ferrari.

His course took us through the village where Francesca lived, at the foot of the mountain. On the far side the houses got more and more spread out; Antonio's seemed to be the last, with fields extending beyond them. It was smaller than the Cavalo's farm, but after all this was Europe, with less land available for agriculture, and it was apparently tended by no one but the two brothers. On one side of the carpark was a field where horses were grazing, on the other an old stone farmhouse that was at least a century old. Across the road, the slopes of the mountain began. Adam or Mrs. G would love painting this tableau, I thought.

Antonio served as an excellent Italian lunch -- no, dinner would be a more appropriate word. Then he gave us a brief tour of the house. Michel found an old spinning wheel whose inner workings, seemed to fascinate him, while Marghareta admired other antiques in the room.

"If you'll excuse me, I must go feed the animals," Antonio said.

"Can I help?" I asked. As the others turned to me in surprise, I added," I'm studying agriculture, and I worked on a farm last winter. I know how to tend animals."

"You are a guest," Antonio insisted. "I will do the work."

"Think of me as a dude on your ranch," I remarked lightly -- but the joke that fell flat because none of the Italians knew the phrase. Antonio went out without me.

While he was gone Marghareta remarked "It's a relief, that he's not forcing his presence on us too much. I was worried, after all, two weeks ago he was admiring my breasts--"

"But it was an accident, and he went no further," insisted Michel. "And besides, they are lovely to behold."

I turned red, and the other couple switched to Italian to continue their erotic talk. It certainly helped them pass the time until Antonio came back. I was definitely feeling like the odd girl out, and not just because my boyfriend was thousands of kilometers away. This house had clearly been in the family for generations, and I was unused to the weight of tradition. Maybe the original Polanskis in Eastern Europe had a place like this, but all the generations I knew were urban Jews, travelling from one American city to another until they had assimilated to the new country.

When Antonio came back he remarked, "It's a lovely day outside, not too hot for August. We have half a dozen horses; does anybody want to ride?"

"I'd like that," I said.

"I'm afraid I never learnt," admitted Michel. _" Tecnico, son io_."

Marghareta looked from Antonio to Michel, and it was obvious what was in her head. She liked the idea of riding, but that would mean going with Antonio instead of Michel, and that could easily be misinterpreted. The situation was a little too tense for that. "I will stay here."

"Very well." He turned to me. "Let us go, _signorina_."

Somewhat dismayed at finding myself alone with Antonio, I followed him out to the stable. When we got there and he chose a horse for me, I insisted on saddling it myself; I didn't want to be receiving too many favors. While doing so I noticed an old-fashioned riding crop sitting on the shelf, and slipped it under my blouse. Not to use on the horse, of course, but just in case--

Once we got outside I swung myself up into the saddle, and felt less nervous after that. If anything went wrong, I could always ride away. "Where are we going?"

"I'd like to show you something on the hill," he said.

I frowned, remembering what we had shown HIM on the hill. But it was paranoid to keep reading things into simple statements. "OK."

He rode down the driveway and I stayed alongside, staying back less than a meter. I was NOT going to look like I was following him. At the road itself we had to rein in our horses as a truck went by. "Do you mind if I ask something?" Antonio asked.

"Depends."

"You are studying agriculture in Rome. But you are _Americana_, and I know they do things differently there, with more land. So why study here?"

"I won't be working in America. I'm going to be working in the Third World, planting crops to avert famine."

"Missionary work?"

"Sort of, but it's a secular organization. Actually, I'm Jewish."

"Oh!"

"Does that bother you?" It occurred to me that a guy who kept talking about _la Penitenza_ must be heavily into Catholicism. To the point of disdaining other religions? We crossed the road and started riding parallel to it for a while.

"Not at all. They important thing is to do the right thing, and correct myself when I do the wrong thing. For me, the teachings of the local priest seem the best guide. But your religion must have its own way."

"Actually, we do. It's called Yom Kippur, the Day of Atonement, and it falls next month. But most of the emphasis is on adhering to the Law and trying to do good deeds in the first place. The word for that is _mitzva_."

Antonio turned his horse's head, onto a little worn path that went uphill. The level parts were not very wide, and so I was forced to drop behind him rather than riding at his side. The symbolism no longer bothered me. Concentrating on an uneven trail on an unfamiliar horse took a lot of attention, though, and put a damper on conversation.

Finally we reached a plateau, and Antonio pointed away from the hill. "There."

I reined in my mount and followed the gesture. There in the distance was the city of Florence, dominated by the famous red dome from the Renaissance era. Probably no town in the world provided such a striking tableau at a distance. "It's lovely! And this is the perfect vantage point. Do people come here often?"

"Few. Tourists, they go to Florence itself, no need to behold it from kilometers away. A few villagers know of this. I tried to show it to Beppo once, but _non e poetico_."

I laughed. "Wouldn't think so. He'd rather look at naked women."

Antonio looked abashed. "I--"

"No, don't say anything. Antonio, you don't have to think terms of _la penitenza_ with me anymore. Let's just be friends."

"_Buono_. May I call you '_tu_'?"

Even he was predominantly speaking English to me, I knew that that was a very important distinction in Italian: deference vs friendship. "_Si_."

When we went down, my horse was in the lead this time. I appreciated that much symbolism. We were equals.

TBC


	7. Alone Again

**GRACE UNDER PRESSURE**

**Chapter 7 Alone Again**

That night, back in my Roman flat, I decided to take a bath and relax. As I took off my blouse, I heard something clatter down to the floor.

It was the riding crop.

Even with nobody to watch, I went hot with embarrassment. I had hid it in my clothes in case I needed to defend myself, then utterly forgot it when Antonio proved a decent guy. Now I was almost a hundred kilometers away from where it belonged.

Maybe Antonio and his brother wouldn't miss it. After all, nobody whipped horses nowadays, except a jockey during a race. The thing could have been sitting on the shelf for decades. It was worthless, and if they never knew it was gone--

But Antonio's conscientiousness had rubbed off on me. After all the talk of _mitzvot_ and _penitenza_, I couldn't just hang on to somebody else's property, or throw it out. The most straightforward thing I could do was mail it back to Antonio. But it would be embarrassing to explain things, and in the absence of an explanation -- well, I had heard of people who did kinky things with riding crops.

The easiest thing would be to pay another visit soon, and quietly replace it. Up to now I had never really been sure that there would BE a second visit. In the meantime, put it out of my head.

I finished undressing and walked into the bathroom. Since I was alone in the flat and had my drapes drawn, I didn't bother wrapping myself in a towel. As I passed the bathroom mirror I caught sight of my reflection, and stopped to study it for a minute. Supposing that I had gone completely _au naturel_ that day with Marghareta and Francesca, how would I have stacked up in comparison? Not too well, I thought. But there was nothing I could do about the appearance of my breasts, and it was silly to brood on the subject. Men who judged women by their chest size were stupid. Breasts were just organs of the body, their purpose was to nurse babies, and I did not plan to get into THAT situation any time soon. Not worth worrying about.. I turned my back on the mirror and got into the tub.

When I got back to work that Monday the arrangement had changed. Agriculture was now "hands-on", working on a farm near Rome. Language classes were reserved for two days of the week, and they no longer focussed just on learning Italian. Now there was an element of general linguistics: how to learn a new language in the field, or communicate in the absence of a shared language. It even shone a light on my earlier attempts to learn Hebrew for my Bat Mizvah, and I liked it. Luke had taught me how to enjoy the pursuit of knowledge instead of dismissing it as so much drudgery. The days in which I hated going to school seemed in the distant past now.

Then, on Thursday, a crisis back in the States ruined my equanimity.

The first sign was that Luke wasn't there that night when I logged onto Messaging. He had gone to visit his brother and Sister Lily, leaving Joan with his computer. Joan herself was in a rage, so much so that her first message was full of typos and profanity.

_There are a lotta bitches in Arcadia, and they got a lotta sons. I wsh the men of my famly were more matzo. But Dad ll always obey the Law and Kevins crippld and Luke an my husbnd are such wussses-- I wish theyd forget being civilized and just beat the ship out of some peeple--_

"Calm down, Girardi," I typed as Joan's tirade continued to fill the screen. Unfortunately you can't yell over a computer connection, and I had to wait until Joan ran out of gas and was able to answer questions. Then I found out why she was so mad.

Apparently the marriage between Kevin and Lily attracted a lot of attention, more than the Girardis were ever aware of. It was on the surface an odd mismatch, a thirty-something ex-nun and a crippled young man nearly ten years her junior. Lots of people, apparently, wondered if Kevin could "perform".

When Lily got pregnant, she thought those doubts would be settled once and for all. But Adam, who was painting a picture at the local Catholic church where Lily worked, overheard a pair of gossips speculating on whether Lily had "had help" from another man. Kevin supposedly went along so that he wouldn't have to admit to "importations", as Joan put it. And the two gossiping bitches had apparently heard the story from somebody else.

_What's Kevin supposed to do? Make a public demonstration?_ Joan typed sarcastically_. Just denying it won't accomplish anything, it just calls more attention to the slander. Luke pointed out that DNA tests can establish paternity, but that will have to wait until the baby is out. Seven months!_

_They can perform DNA tests in the womb,_ I typed back. I had learned that while studying the breeding of animals.

_Sister Lily wouldn't want to risk harm to the baby. That's out. I wish You-Know-Who would show up and give some advice. But if He just tells me platitudes about forgiveness, I'll tell Him to go to--_

I got a momentary laugh out of Joan's mixed-up theology: ordering the Almighty to curse Himself. But in general I was very depressed when I signed off. A crisis afflicting the family I loved, and I was stuck here thousands of kilometers away.

Fortunately my agriculture task the next day was pretty mindless -- basically shoveling manure back and forth, which seemed to fit my mood. When I got home, the first thing that I did was punch in the phone number for Marghareta and Michel. Michel answered, and I poured out the story of the scandal. Unfortunately, Michel misunderstood where my emphasis was.

"It sounds like it would be a win-win situation, if it occurred. The couple gets the baby they want, and the other man gets free sex, no strings attached. Why should moralists get involved?"

"But--"

"I think in the future, private arrangements like this will become more acceptable. In some of the science fiction I've read--"

"THIS ISN'T ONE OF YOUR FANTASIES!" I yelled into the phone. "THIS IS REAL LIFE!"

"But it's projected from current trends. As we learn more about the genome, maybe babies' parents could be chosen by genetic principles, irregardless of who they're married to."

"Eugenics was a Fascist idea." I interrupted.

"Coerced eugenics, yes. But if everybody agrees --"

"Lily didn't agree to any of this!" I said, slamming the handset down.

Michel had missed the main point: that Lily wasn't one of his imaginary people of the future, but an ex-nun who took chastity very seriously and would be terribly upset by rumors of adultery, even condoned adultery. As a girl who had spent years fearing that my alcoholic mother might ruin the image of the perfect rabbinical family, I could empathize with Lily, even across the religious divide. But who of my Italian friends would understand?

But there was one friend who took sin and its responsibility very seriously. I picked up the handset again and started punching in the phone number for Antonio's farm.

TBC

.

.


	8. Full Circle

**GRACE UNDER PRESSURE**

**Chapter 8 Full Circle**

_"Pronto."_ Beppo's voice.

Oh, great. Antonio had mentioned that his brother knew little English, so I would have to get by on my Italian. _"Sono Gracia Polonski. Parlare a Antonio_?" I wondered if he would cooperate, or whether he would just hang up on the girl who once threw a rock at him. But he muttered _"Uno momento" _and the line stayed connected_._

Antonio came on the line and I poured out the story of Lily and Kevin and the false accusations. He listened patiently, then said "_E horribile_, that a woman should devote her life to doing good, and yet have her honor attacked by fools."

So he understood. "I don't know what to do."

"I cannot advise, Gracia. I do not know the culture. Here in my town, it would be a matter of _la vendetta_. But I would say, assure your friend that YOU believe in her. That you are separated by an ocean but are with them _in spirito_."

"Thank you." Actually it was advice that I could have thought of on my own. But I was relieved to find that somebody shared my point of view.

"I wish that I could be with you in your _dolore._ But I have agreed to do business in Parma for several days."

"That's all right."

"Would you like to visit next weekend?"

I wasn't even thinking that far ahead. The only thing I could remember was that tomorrow was the first day of September, the month in which the High Holy Days usually fell. But since the holidays were determined by the traditional Jewish calendar, it was difficult to keep track of the exact dates. "I'll have to check the dates for Jewish New Year. If there's not a conflict, I'll come."

The next day, Friday, was devoted to language class, and to a subtle point that really demanded my concentration. It took my mind off the Girardi's problems for a while. But when weekend came and I came home from the synagogue service, I found that I could think of nothing else. TV wasn't a distraction; I still didn't understand Italian well enough. I was still annoyed at Michel, which counted out visiting him and Marghareta. Going to a cinema or seeing the sights of Rome didn't appeal to me.

The crisis finally broke on Sunday afternoon. I finally heard about it from Luke that night -- early evening by Arcadia time. And the heroine of the situation was, of all people, Bonnie.

Though I hadn't known it, Bonnie had known Lily for some time. When Joan had to do community service and met Bonnie, Lily was in charge of the crew. When Bonnie got pregnant and moved in with the Roves, it was Lily who gave her the "feminine" advice she needed. After Bonnie had the baby and gave it up for adoption, Lily had persuaded her to take senior year over rather than dropping out with no diploma.

Bonnie had been at Lily's church this morning. After Mass, there was apparently an informal lunch for members of the congregation, and Bonnie overheard two people repeating the Lily gossip. Although Bonnie had kept a low profile so far at the church, she blew her top and started shouting. Everybody in the eating hall could hear her.

"Lily's one of the honestest people I know. I go to her for counseling, and I'm going to keep going. She's not messed up, I am. She didn't get knocked up doing something stupid, I did. There's only one sort of person who'd suspect Lily of playing around, and that's the sort of whore that would do it herself at the drop of a fifty-dollar bill."

Not the sort of speech you'd usually hear in church, but Father Ken, who visited Lily late this afternoon and told her the story, said joyfully that it was worth half a dozen sermons. He said that at least two people -- whom of course he was forbidden to identify -- had been shamed into "confessing" to participating in the gossip, and as penance he had demanded that they work to restore Lily's good name.

Even in computer print, Joan "sounded" relieved -- enough so to say nice things about the girl who had once slept with her boyfriend.

I called Antonio with the good news, leaving out the weirder details. "My only regret was that I wasn't much help personally." I added.

"You offered support until the problem solved itself," assured Antonio. "But what about your visit? Turn it into an occasion for celebration instead of consolation?"

"Yes, I'll come Saturday after services. The Holy Days don't start until September 22, I checked. Oh! I have an idea. Why don't we pay another visit to the lake where everything started, and go swimming? Do things right this time. I'll bring a swimsuit," I added hastily.

"And forget the first time ever happened. _Buono_."

And so, six days later, I was mounted on one of Antonio's horses, riding up the road on which I had originally hiked with Marghareta and Francesca a month ago. I had even had an opportunity to secretly put that stupid riding crop back on the shelf while saddling my horse. I was dressed in T-shirt and jeans, with the swimsuit in one of the saddlebags. The Girardis' messages during the week had stopped talking about Lily and were now focussed on getting ready for going to college. I felt wonderful, something that rarely happened to me.

At one point the hill flattened out for a few dozen meters, and the ground was covered in grass instead of trees or rock. Antonio turned into the field and urged my horse to follow.

"It will be a longer walk," he commented, "but here the horses can graze while we swim."

So he was thoughtful even toward the animals. "Fine." I dismounted and got my swimsuit out of the saddlebag, and he showed me the path to follow.

Finally we came in sight of the lake. I pointed at a thick cluster of trees. "I'll change over there. Don't look."

"I would prefer not to be witnessed myself," Antonio joked.

I slipped behind the trees, feeling rather self-conscious. Only once before had I completely undressed outdoors: it was last February. I had ridden too far from home, and had to pee. I nearly froze my butt then. But this was early September, a warm day, with the trees blocking off direct sunlight. The temperature was perfect.

Before putting on the suit I looked down at my nude body and had a weird fantasy: I was Eve in the Garden of Eden. Except that Eve probably looked a lot more womanly than I did; she had to, to pass the feminine genes down to all the rest of us.

I shook off the mood and put on my bathing suit. It was a one-piece, reaching from the breasts down to the thighs. Bikinis just weren't my thing, I had thought when I bought it in Rome.

It was hard to pin down just why swimming was so enjoyable. Maybe it was the buoyancy, the feeling that you could float, move in three dimensions, as if you were flying; as if the laws of nature had been suspended. But no, this WAS nature, at its most delightful.

An old poem from English Lit came to my mind. I was more sensitive to poetry than I usually admitted, and this particular poem matched the alienation that I felt so much in high school.

The world is too much with us; late and soon,  
Getting and spending, we lay waste our powers:  
Little we see in Nature that is ours;  
We have given our hearts away, a sordid boon!

The Sea that bares her bosom to the moon;  
The winds that will be howling at all hours,  
And are up-gathered now like sleeping flowers;  
For this, for everything, we are out of tune…

I was feeling very in-tune now.

Finally we waded back to shore. "We don't want to put our clothes on when we're still wet," I observed. "Believe me, it's not pleasant."

Antonio looked about. "There's a grassy patch over there, in the sun. We can dry out there, gradually."

"Good idea."

The grassy patch turned out to be a bit smaller than it seemed. We had to lie down close to each other, to avoid pushing Antonio into a rocky area or me into a patch of mud. But it worked. I closed my eyes against the sunlight. Maybe I dozed off; it would certainly explain the dreamy mood of what followed.

"I think we've dried off enough," Antonio said eventually. "Do you want to dress and go back to the horses?"

"Not yet. I'm so enjoying this. It's one of the most delightful days of my life, thanks to you."

I rolled over and kissed Antonio's face as if it was a normal thing to do. It was the first time I had done so, but we didn't stop there. When he wrapped his arms around me, I didn't protest; it felt totally normal as if we were supposed to be doing this. I could feel, and share, his urge to go even further.

This was a perfect afternoon: the sun was shining, making me feel sleepy and happy. It seemed as if nothing could go wrong. When I did break the embrace, it was not to create a distance but to start unfastening my bathing suit.

_DÉJÀ VU:_

_The Girardi house last November, Luke's birthday. Joan had gone to sleep, and I had secretly crossed the hallway to offer myself to Luke in his room. We had agreed to do it, for the first time. As I dropped my pajamas I was scared about what I was about to do, but underneath that was a conviction that Luke was my soul mate and that it was time for union._

I didn't feel that way now.

I backed up suddenly, horrified at what I was doing. "Antonio, _I can't do this."_

TBC

_(AUTHOR'S NOTE: The poem Grace quotes is by the English Romantic poet Wordsworth. It has no title and is usually known by its opening line)_

_(AUTHOR'S NOTE: Concerning Grace's Eve fantasy: Grace understands about evolution and X chromosomes. but she is not in a scientifically rigorous mood at the moment.)_


	9. Day of Atonement

**GRACE UNDER PRESSURE**

**Chapter 9 Day of Atonement**

Antonio stared at me, as well he might, and I could tell what was going through his mind. Desire, competing with the honorable impulse to obey my request and stay at a distance. I wasn't making it any easier for him. Even in its usual position my swimsuit showed a lot of cleavage, and at the moment I had to hang onto it desperately to avoid exposing a breast.

"Forgive me," he said eventually. "I--"

"It's not a matter of forgiveness!" I exclaimed. "I was leading you on -- but not on purpose. I don't know what got into me. I wanted it -- but now I know, it was a terrible idea." I had always thought it was silly of Joan to get in bed with Adam after that concert and then panic at the last minute. Now here I was in the same situation, with less excuse.

"Let's separate," I said, trying to shake the dreamy mood and plan things through. "Please, stay here about an hour. Do more swimming if you like. I'll ride down to your house, get a taxi to the train station in Florence."

"That will cost a lot of euro," he said, suddenly practical. "I--"

"NO! I can't accept money from you. I've got enough." With an effort I finally get my strap back where it belonged.

.

I dashed behind the grove of trees where my T-shirt and jeans were. I didn't dare remove my swimsuit, not with a frustrated male a few meters away. I donned my shirt and pants over it, telling myself I could fix the situation later, maybe in the ladies' room of a train station.

As I trudged through the woods I wondered what the hell had gotten into me. I had known Luke for more than two years before I took the plunge. What possessed me to throw myself at Antonio after less than a month? I didn't even know that much about him. What had happened to his parents? Why did he speak English so well? Where did the conscientious streak come from?

And I actually came up with a few explanations, none of them good.

That in spite of days studying, I hadn't shaken the carefree vacation mood. "What happens in Vegas stays in Vegas". Reality was what happened in Arcadia. And the lovely mountain lake had been a vacation within a vacation, a second escape from responsibility.

That I had overcompensated for my initial reaction to Antonio. Having mistrusted him at first, I had been determined to be nice to him and accept any invitation

That he was the stereotypical good lover: tall-dark-handsome, strong from farm chores, and that he accepted the fact that I was far from being the stereotypical pretty girl.

That, fundamentally, I had been stupid.

I finally reached the clearing where the horses were grazing. I caught mine and hoisted myself up on its back. I had been riding for a year, but it felt odd, for two reasons. First, I was still wearing my bathing suit under my jeans, which made my butt feel awkward in the saddle. More importantly, I remembered that this wasn't my horse. It belonged to Antonio, whom I was anxious to get out of my life.

Before even starting downhill, I fished my cell phone and my phrase book out of the saddlebags to call a taxi. Get away from here as quick as possible.

And I had a peculiar literary flash, quite different from the Wordsworth poem I had remembered at the lake. Somewhere around this lovely Tuscan landscape, seven hundred years ago, Dante had supposedly found the gateway into hell--

When I got back to my flat in Rome I lay in my bed for almost two hours, staring at the phone. Luke HAD to know what happened, even if it ruined our relationship forever, and I ended up with nobody. My conscience was coming back, in spades, and I knew that I could not live a lie with Luke. Finally, as it darkened outside, I picked up the handset and punched in Luke's cell phone number. I couldn't have a personal conversation like this over something as impersonal as a computer.

"Hello?"

"It's me--"

"Grace.! How glad I am you called. Listen, I'm in Cambridge now, walking around the Harvard campus. Nothing new, but this time I feel that I belong here. The athletic fields are just ahead."

I had forgotten the difference in time zones. "That's nice. I--" I faltered.

"Is something wrong, Grace?"

"Yeah. Could you sit down somewhere private, where nobody can hear your side?"

"OK. There's a bench at the edge of the field, and nobody's practicing now. But this sounds scary." Already he sounded subdued.

"Yeah," I repeated helplessly. "Listen, Luke: there's a guy--"

"Is his name Antonio?" he asked coldly.

"What-- how --?"

"You aren't the only person in Europe who talks to me, Grace. Michel and I correspond too. A lot of it is "geek talk" about science and science fiction, but he did mention that you had a friend named Antonio."

"What did he say about us?"

"Nothing too shocking, in itself. That you and Antonio had gone horseback riding two weeks ago, and that you were going to visit him again today. But I thought it odd that your Emails never mentioned him at all, as if you were trying to cover up something." Luke sounded increasingly cold, like a computer solving a crime through logic.

"But -- Luke -- didn't you care?"

His voice suddenly took on passion. "Of course I cared! I love you, Grace. You don't know how often this month I've been tempted to chuck Harvard altogether, get a plane to Europe and see what you were doing."

"But why didn't you--?"

"Because of what you said to me at the very beginning. WE DON'T OWN EACH OTHER. If you've found a new guy to sleep with, well, that's your life. I just wish you'd waited more than a month after I left." He sounded miserable. All that enthusiasm about Harvard must have been an act, or a desperate attempt at distraction.

Suddenly I realized what hell Luke had been going through. Thinking I was cheating on him, lying about it -- yet keeping his own mouth shut because he respected something I had said to him two years ago. No wonder his own Emails had been so dull, all the trivia about selling my horse. He was keeping his real feelings hidden from me, out of respect for me. Under that geeky exterior was a great soul.

"It wasn't like that, Luke! I was lonely, Antonio was friendly. It was all Platonic until today. Then something happened, we were tempted, but I backed off when I remembered you. Then I called you because -- well, you don't own me and I don't own you. But we both belong to something, a bond -- please don't leave me, Luke! I love you." If by some miracle somebody had been watching me for the past three years, they might not recognize me now, pleading desperately on the phone. But I had never been more in earnest.

A long silence, during which I was afraid I had lost him. When he spoke he sounded oddly calm, and the subject was surprising. "I understand temptation. Last winter, there was a girl -- I'm not naming her because I don't want to get her in trouble. We got as far as a hug. Then we broke off because, as you put it, we each of us had a bond. I never had the nerve to tell you. You had the honesty to tell me in the end, and I respect that.."

Glynis, it had to be Glynis. Good Lord, last winter she was already married!. But I was in no position to judge Luke. "I don't care, Luke. The bond still held and that's the important thing."

"Yes. Let's put all this behind us, Grace. Two thousand miles apart, months on end, there are bound to be problems. I can forgive lapses if you can."

"I can't do just that. I have an idea. I'm going to write up everything that happened, and send it to you. Let you be the judge. Make up for all those stupid Emails where I never said anything."

"Well, if you like. But it won't change anything. I love you, Grace."

"Love you."

I hung up and meditated for almost an hour, trying to put last month's foolishness in some sort of perspective. Then I sat at my computer and opened an editor.

_Amazing how quickly things can become prosaic. I never would have said so out loud -- it would completely ruin my image as Cynic Girl -- but Italy during the first two weeks had seemed like a wonderland--_

THE END.

_(Author's Note: the incident Luke is confessing to happened in an earlier story, LUKE LOOKS FOR ANSWERS)_

_(Author's Note: The Day of Atonement is the usual English name for Yom Kippur, the Jewish holy day on which a worshipper acknowledges his or her sins and prays for forgiveness)_

_(Author's Note: Dante was a native of Florence. At the beginning of the Divine Comedy he finds the Gateway to Hell with the famous inscription "All hope abandon, ye who enter here." Although of course his story is fictitious, Grace finds it symbolic that the Gateway might be in the neighborhood._


End file.
